Hannah's List (Blossom Street #7)(38)

"A mural's an excellent idea," I said.

"Would you like me to ask Susan in Dr. O'Malley's office for the artist's name?"

"No...ah, sure. But I already know the name of a woman who could do this."

"I'll get the phone number of the one who painted Dr. O'Malley's mural, as well," Linda told me. "Then if the artist you know doesn't work out, we'll have another option."

"Great." This was what I appreciated most about Linda. She thought of everything.

I waited until the end of the day to call Macy. I found her phone listing in the online directory and punched out the number.

The phone rang four times and I was preparing to leave a message when a breathless voice greeted me. "Hello?"

"Macy Roth?"

"That's me." She sounded as if she'd run a long distance.

"This is Dr. Michael Everett."

"Is it about Harvey?" she demanded, panic in her voice. "I asked him to give my name as an emergency contact. He's terribly ill, isn't he? I've been so worried! He didn't tell me he made a doctor's appointment, but there's a lot Harvey doesn't tell me."

I had to wait for her to take a breath. As soon as she did, I jumped in and assured her this had nothing to do with Harvey, whoever that might be. "Actually, I'm phoning on an entirely different matter."

The line went quiet. "This isn't about Harvey?"

"No," I told her again. "This is about a job. I understand you paint murals."

"I do," she said brightly. "I'm good at it, too." And modest about her talent, I noted.

"Would you like me to paint a wall for you? I charge reasonable rates and I'm creative and dependable."

I chose to ignore the finer qualities she felt obliged to enumerate. "I'm thinking of having a mural painted in my office." I wasn't willing to commit myself until I'd had an opportunity to meet Macy.

"I'd be happy to paint a mural for you."

"Do you have pictures of what you've done?" I asked.

"I do...somewhere. I'm not sure exactly where they are, but I do have photographs of my work."

"Can I see them?" It seemed a logical request.

"I'll have to hunt them up. I'm afraid that might take a while."

The woman clearly didn't possess much of a business mind, let alone any organizational skills. "Would you like to know what I want painted?" I asked, half amused and half irritated.

"It's a wall, right? That's where most people want their murals."

"A hallway."

"Okay. Have you chosen a subject? Like...like goldfish in a pond. Or a farm scene. Or--"

"I'd like to hear your ideas. When would it be convenient for you to stop by?"

"I'm not doing anything right now," she volunteered. "If you want, I could drop in tonight."

It would be nice to deal with this matter after hours, rather than between patients. "How soon can you be here?" I asked after giving her the office address. "Oh, you're close. I could make it in twenty minutes." "I'll alert the security guard to let you into the building."

"Thanks." She hesitated, then asked, "If I'm a few minutes late, it's not a problem, right?"

"Well..."

"I'll do my best," she promised and the line went dead.

"A few minutes late," as Macy called it, turned out to be thirty-five minutes past the time she'd mentioned. I paced the office, disgruntled and annoyed. I insist on promptness, especially in business situations; when I tell someone I'll arrive in twenty minutes, I keep my word. If I'm held up for some unforeseen reason, I contact the person in question and explain.

Almost an hour after our phone call, I heard the office door open and came out to meet Macy Roth. To my surprise, I did know her. When Leanne had apologized for not attending the funeral, I'd said I hadn't been aware of who was there and who wasn't.

With one exception.

The woman in red. The woman who'd worn a bright red outfit and a wide-brimmed hat with curls of carroty hair poking out beneath. She'd stood out like a lone apple tree in the middle of a meadow. Everyone else had worn black or dark clothes for mourning. Not Macy. Just seeing her there as though dressed for a party had set my teeth on edge. Obviously the woman had no discretion. No common sense, either, since she'd chosen to wear such cheerful clothes to a funeral. Today she had on a pair of yellow leggings, a leopard-print tunic and ballet-style shoes. Her long, red hair was pulled into a ponytail high on her head. Macy Roth must have been thirty, but in that get-up she looked about eighteen. She certainly didn't exhibit the professional appearance I would've expected at an interview.

She stopped abruptly when she saw me and her eyes met mine in sudden recognition. "You're Hannah's husband," she whispered.

I nodded.

Macy's eyes went soft with pain. "I loved Hannah."

"Thank you," I said curtly. I wasn't going to discuss my wife with this woman I'd disliked on sight.

"I remember the time she--"

"You're late." I knew I was being rude, but I couldn't help it. I was astonished that Hannah had seen this woman as a suitable wife for me.